Fast and sure on that reef we lay for upwards of forty-eight hours, and it was only by lightening the ship of coals, and buoying her with empty rum casks that we got safely afloat at last. The men were in good spirits all the time, because forsooth, the cat, was “singing like all possessed.”

Nothing to Eat.

It was the last voyage of the cruise. We were steering from Zanzibar to the Cape, under orders home. We had on board with us no less a personage than the bishop of C—— A—— and his learned curate, Dr. Blank. Now we had not been to sea over three days when, lo and behold! one-half, at least, of the casks of beef and provisions, supposed to be full, were found to be mere dummies. It was nobody’s fault—it always is nobody’s fault in a case of that sort—but the upshot of it was, that all hands were put upon short allowance; and as our mess—having got into debt—was just then living on ship’s provisions, we officers had to suffer the same privations as the men. Besides, we had neither beer, wine, nor spirits on board, very little water, and no coals to spare to distil more.

This was a very pretty look out for a three weeks’ voyage, to the Cape, in mid-winter. And poor Tom came in for more cursing now than ever. Everybody cursed him everywhere; they cursed him below and cursed him aloft; cursed him on the quarter-deck, and cursed him in the cook’s galley. But Tom only sung the louder.

“It was all along of that blessed cat,” the sailors said; and they added, “that it was a good thing we had my lord bishop on board, to counteract the evil effects of the skipper’s imp.” The poor bishop suffered too, but mostly from sea-sickness. He kept his bed all the voyage. He was a stout man at Zanzibar, but he got considerably thinner, before we reached the Cape. But his curate was more to be pitied, he was a thin man, didn’t get sick, and had a stomach like a brewer’s horse; and the more sorrow for that same, there being so little to put into it. Our biscuit must, I think, have been baked before the flood, each morsel, while black with cockroaches’ filth outside, entertaining a whole colony of weevils inside; we ate the weevils, however, merely tapping each morsel on the table to get rid of the superabundant dust, before conveying it to our mouths. We had neither potatoes nor butter. We had white beans though, and black rice and fried sardines, to which latter we used to add a little turmeric and cayenne by way of flavouring. We actually got mean in our hunger, and used to say little snappish things to each other, about our share of the victuals; things which we would have been ashamed to say under any other circumstances. No one, I can assure you, was above helping himself, to the last spoonful of rice or beans, out of a delicate feeling of consideration for his neighbour. In good sooth, sometimes three or four spoons, would meet at the dish at once in most undignified haste.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” our little good-natured assistant paymaster would say; “better is a dinner of rice and fried sardines, where love is, than a stallëd ox and hatred therewith.”

We should just have liked to have seen the stallëd ox, that’s all. But this assistant paymaster was a stout bulky little chap, and didn’t suffer half what we did. I’m certain he lived on his own fat all the way to the Cape, just as the sheep in the Highlands do, when they have the misfortune to be buried in the snow for a week or two. Our conversation all the dinner hour—when we weren’t quarrelling—used to be about this glorious feed, and the next glorious feed, which we once had; and it would certainly have been amusing for an outsider—who wasn’t hungry himself mind you—to have heard us, enlarging on all the dainties that had been set before us in happier times.

Our conversation would have been somewhat after the following fashion:—

S. “But, by George, when I was in the P. & O. Co.’s Service—ay, old fellows, that was the place to live—there is where we used to get the spreads.”

All. “Yes, yes; tell us, there’s a dear boy. What had you for dinner?”

S. “Well, you know, the bill of fare used to be two yards long, and a yard and a quarter wide. We had two soups, and then——”

All. “No, no; tell us first what the soups were?”

S. “Well, say vermicelli and macaro—Oh! hang it all, Moreton, that’s the third time to my certain knowledge, that you’ve helped yourself to rice.”

Moreton. “To-morrow’s pea-soup day, never mind.”

S. “But I do mind.”

All. “Go on with your yarn.”

S. “Well, vermicelli and macaroni, and then a bit of delicious white turbot, with oyster sauce and——”

All. “Yes, yes; go on.”

S. “All very well to say go on; but I shall have those three beans, you greedy beggars. Well, then, after the fish came—” etc., etc., etc.

When S. had finished, R. would begin.

“That just reminds me of an hotel I was at in France,” etc., and so each one told his experiences, to the infinite delectation of his neighbours, and having locust-like devoured everything we came across, we used to get up hungry and haggard, and run on deck to smoke away the tail end of our appetite.

In those days, our grace before and after meat was rather a peculiar one. The president said the first; it was, “Curse the cat.” Then just before we rose from table, “Mr. Vice, will you kindly return thanks.”

“Confound the cat.”

The Last of the Skipper’s Imp.

No one ever saw the last of him, however; although a seaman, called Davis, swore point black, that he had seen the cat fly overboard in a sheet of blue flame; but then Davis was the biggest lubber and the greatest liar in the ship. The only thing known for certain is this: we were about three days’ sail from Symon’s Town, Cape of Good Hope. The night was dark and the weather squally, and poor Tom was last seen sitting, very quiet and pensive-like, on the hammock nettings aft. He was seen there, I say, in the middle watch; and he was never seen again alive or dead. The men swore roundly that he was a devil nothing more nor less, and that, being a devil, he couldn’t stomach my lord bishop on board, and consequently took French leave and went home. The truth, I suppose is, that the ship gave a nasty lee lurch, and Tom, half asleep, missed his footing, and tumbled overboard. I know the skipper was sorry.

We kept a good look out for the Flying Dutchman after Tom’s demise; but very much to my disappointment, we did not fall in with that ghostly ship. If I were merely writing a sailor’s yarn, I should certainly say we had seen her, and give a most photographic-like description of her; but such stories I leave landsmen to tell, for I think if a man has been for ten or a dozen years at sea, and kept his weather eye lifting all the time, it will take him the remainder of his life to tell the whole truth alone.

When we came down to the Cape, which we managed to do without any further adventures, there lay the new admiral’s ship, all spick and span from England’s shores, so all our fellows were turned over to, and went home in the old Admiral’s ship, all except our engineer and my unhappy self. We, much to our disgust, were reappointed to the saucy Tickler, which was to remain out for another commission, as tender to the new flagship. Now, however, we had a new captain, the jolliest little man alive; new officers, and a new crew, and we were all as jolly as sandboys. The new officers thought themselves tremendously clever chaps, and every night they used all to pull off their slippers and go pell mell at the unfortunate cockroaches; but the engineer and I sat like stoics, and let them crawl over us in scores, and if too many at one time came on the book we might be reading, we gently removed them. But before a month was over, our messmates found out the futility, of trying to diminish the number of cockroaches, and these interesting creatures had carte blanche all over the ship.

TORTOISESHELL.
First Prize—Owned by Mr. L. Smith.

SILVER, or BLUE TABBY.
First Prize—Owned by Mr. Reynolds.

We sailed for Bombay.

But though black Tom was no more, ill-luck seemed still to hover in the wake of that little vessel.

I would willingly narrate our further adventures in detail, but somehow I have no heart, now that the cat has left the story. But, how we were caught in a gale off the Cape and the ship taken aback (that, reader, is much more dreadful than it appears on paper), how we sprang a leak a week after—glass falling and weather stormy, on a rock bound coast—and, just as the ship was beginning to stagger like a drunk man, and the boats were got ready for lowering, the engineer—brave little man—dived below water in the engine-room, and found it was no leak at all, but the great sea-cock left open by a drunken stoker; how we ran on shore on that wild reef outside Johanna, and lay there for a whole week with our keel floating in splinters around us; how, finally we got off, and steamed to Bombay almost a wreck; the pumps going continually, and barely keeping her afloat; how we arrived safely through it all; how a liberal government paid rather more for repairing her, than would have bought a new one, and how she was sold three years after for an old song,—is it not all written in the log of Her Majesty’s saucy gunboat, Tickler.

“Zula,” the property of Mrs. Captain Barrett-Lennard. This cat was brought from Abyssinia at the conclusion of the war, fed on the way home on raw beef, and was long very wild. She is now very fond of her mistress, but has a great many eccentricities which other cats have not, and is altogether a wonderful specimen of cat-kind.

ADDENDA.

I deem it fair both to myself and to the reader, to supplement my own evidence on the “Curiosities of Cat Life,” by giving the names and addresses of my authorities for those of my anecdotes, which may seem to run contrary to the generally received opinions, concerning cats; at the same time thanking those ladies and gentlemen, who have taken so much interest in the progress of this work, and expressed themselves willing to vouch for the truth of the incidents herein related by me. I have tried to make the anecdotes as readable as possible, and as humorous, as I know many people think “cats” a dry subject; but in no single instance have the interests of truth been disregarded. My anecdotes are what might be called sample anecdotes, as I have many hundreds more of the same sort, my object being to describe pussy as she really is, and thus to gain favour for an animal hitherto understood only by the few, and abused by the many. And, nothing would give me greater pain, than the reader to have an idea, that my cats are exceptional cats; for, I distinctly aver, that no cat mentioned in this book, has either done or suffered anything, which any other cat in the kingdom cannot do or suffer.

INDEX OF NAMES AND ADDRESSES.

Anderson, Alex., Mr., New Fowlis, Crieff, N.B.

Anderson, Jane, Miss, Old Meldrum, Aberdeenshire.

Bird, Miss, Snowdon Place, Stirling.

Bonnar, T., Mr., Largoward, St. Andrews.

Budge, W., Mr., 113, Montrose Street, Brechin.

Burns, D., Mr., 19, Murray Road East, Finsbury Park, London.

Catto, W. D., Ed. of “People’s Journal,” Dundee.

Church, W., Mrs., 5, Regent’s Park, Heavitree, Essex.

Cockerell, Misses, 41, Warwick Street, London.

Crerar, Peter, Mr., Buchan’s Buildings, Burrell Street, Crief, N.B.

Cresswell, Frances, Miss, Early Wood, Bagshot, Surrey.

Catto, Edward, Mr., 17, Mortimer Street, Dundee.

Davis, Mr., Aberdare, South Wales.

Donald, John, Mr., 54, Plantation Street, Glasgow.

Dorwood, David, Mr., Kinettles, Forfarshire.

Douglas, T. S., Mr., Park Street, Aberdeen.

Durno, Isa, Miss, Floors, Auchterless, N.B.

Ford, R., Mr., 32, Princess Street, Dundee.

Forshall, F. M., Miss, 14, Park Place, Clarence Gate, London.

Gerrard, Samuel, Mr., New Aberdour, Fraserburgh, N.B.

Gillespie, James, Mr., Ardean, by Dollar, N.B.

Geekie, G., Mr., 18, Mitchell Square, Blairgowrie, Perth.

Gordon, Miss, Camden House, Aberdeen.

Gordon, Mrs., 41, Grieve Street, Dunfermline, N.B.

Grant, Archibald, Mr., New Dupplis, Elgin.

Gray, T., Mr., Park Street, Galashiels.

Grey, P., Mr., Durris, by Aberdeen.

Hutcheson, James, Mr., 22, Temple Lane, Dundee.

Howie, David, Mr., Inverleithen, Peebleshire.

Leitch, David, 31, Bonnygate, Cupar Fife, N.B.

Lynch, Miss, Arduthie, Stonehaven, N.B.

Mackie, A., Mr., 12, Lower James Street, Sheerness.

Macdonald, Mrs., Post Office, Lasswade, N.B.

McCorkle, R., Miss, Newhouse, Stirling.

McLean, John, Mr., Orbliston, Fochabers, N.B.

McKenzie, Mrs., Dornoch, N.B.

McPherson, Colin, Mr., Viewbank Terrace, Dundee.

Miller, Francis, Mr., 17, Sutherland Street, Helensburgh.

Millar, D., Mr., The Cross, Linlithgow.

Mitchell, J., Mr., Matthew’s Land, Strathmartine, by Dundee.

Morseley, C. A., Miss, 8, Ludeley Place, Brighton.

Mowat, M., Mr., Berriedale, Caithness.

Oliver, A., Miss, Bovinger Rectory, Ongar, Essex.

Paterson, J., Mr., Carnbo, Kinross.

Pettigrew, Miss, Post Office, Auchterarder, N.B.

Pratt, W., Mr., 143, Norwich Road, Ipswich.

Robinson, W. J., Ballycassidy, viâ Omagh, Ireland.

Rebecca, Mr., Rubislaw, near Aberdeen.

Sibbald, Peter, Mr., 5, Brougham Place, Hawick.

Smith, J., Mr., 79, Princess Street, Dundee.

Stoddart, D., Mr., 92, Rose Street, Edinburgh.

Suter, Miss, Balne Vicarage, Selby.

Swanson, J., Mr., Durness Street, Thurso.

Taylor, W., Mr., Merchant, Cuminstone, by Turriff N.B.

Tyndal, T. G., Mr., Schoolmaster, Portleithen, Hillside, Aberdeen.

Wallace, Mrs., E. U. Manse, Coupar Angus.

Watson, J., Mr., High Street, Alva, Stirlingshire.

Whiteley, Mr., Baggholme Road, Lincoln.

Whyte, J., Mr., Dallfied Terrace, Dundee.

Wilson, G., Mrs., Cults, near Aberdeen.

Note A.—I have to acknowledge with thanks, the kind letter on the points and classification of cats, sent me by J. Jenner Weir, F.L.S.

Note B.—Fishermen, returning in their boats on clear summer nights, often see a bright light on this mountain’s side. I should think the phenomenon due to the reflection of star-rays, from a piece of rock crystal; but the superstitious Skye men have a different opinion, and aver that this light marks the entrance to the cave of the buried treasure. I hope they may find it. I strongly suspect, however, that the malignant fairy is nothing more nor less than a wild cat.

Note C.—Anecdote of the wild cat. Mr. Sibbald.

Note D.—Anecdote related by Mrs. McDonald.

Note E.—Anecdote of “Tucker.” Mr. Swanson.

Note F.—Anecdote of cat hunting on three legs. Mr. John McLean.

Note G.—Anecdote by Miss Oliver.

Note H.—Related by Mrs. Church.

Note I.—Related by Mrs. McDonald.

Note K.—The cat belonging to Lieutenant Hawthorne. This cat was first prize for weight at the Crystal Palace.

Note L.—Anecdote related by Mrs. D. H. Gordon.

Note M.—Anecdote by Miss Oliver.

Note N.—For private reasons the address of voucher for the truth of this anecdote cannot be published, but can be sent privately, if wished.

Note O.—Related by Mr. Murray, Stretford Road, Hulme, Manchester.

Note P.—This sport (?) is also common in the Highlands of Scotland.

Note Q.—This happened at the mill of Maidencraig, near Aberdeen. Mr. W. Young, was then miller.

Note R.—Related by Mrs. G. Wilson.

Note S.—This queer little doggie may be seen any evening at the Crown Hotel, Gosport. A small white bull-terrier.

Note T.—Related by Mr. Rebecca.

Note U.—Anecdote by Mr. Millar.

Note V.—Anecdote by Mrs. Church.

Note W.—Related by Miss Oliver.

Note X.—Related by Mr. Swanson.

[1] The aversion of the poorer classes in Scotland to receive parochial relief, or to go into “the house,” is well known. No man having once done so can—or indeed would be permitted to—hold up his head among his neighbours again.

[2] One only child.

[3] Gowk—a cuckoo, an animal of little sense.

[4] Tit—pap.

[5] Dripping = kitchen-fee.

[6] Glossary to above. 1, Thrum, a bit of thread. 2, hum, sing low without words. 3, grat, wept. 4, eenies, little eyes. 5, preenies, small pins. 6, syne, then. 7, glum, melancholy. 8, heed, head. 9, bleed, blood. 10, beanies, small bones. 11, Num! Nice! 12, greet, weep. 13, lum, chimney-pot.

[7] Women selling Scotch confectionery.

[8] Note. This chapter “is rote sarkastic.”

[9] See, page 100, vol. I.

[10] Pelage in catology = feather in dogology.

[11] Honey, suet, marlingspikes, and pens.—Jack’s translation.

[12] In my next edition I shall insert a bird-stuffer’s name here. Space to be let to the highest bidder.

[13] 11 o’clock.

[14] Throughout the story, commander, captain, and skipper mean one and the same person. In the Royal Navy, a senior lieutenant generally commands a gunboat, and is called captain for courtesy, and skipper behind his back.

[15] My! a Scottish interjection only translatable by the Greek Ιω! (Io!)

[16] Half-past five p.m.